Image Description: An overhead view of a fictional baked-goods town called Walnutford, designed in the style of a map. A glossy custard river runs horizontally from left to right across the centre of the image, gently curving as it flows. On either side of the river is a bustling town made entirely of baked treats. You can see pies with lattice and star tops, croissants, bread rolls, loaves, tarts, and pastry parcels, all arranged like buildings on a map. Whipped cream puffs and green fondant leaves appear like trees and parks. The ground looks like it’s dusted with fine flour or biscuit crumbs. At the top centre, large white text reads “YeastEnders”, with “Walnutford” in smaller letters below. The entire scene is warm, golden, and surreal – a deliciously baked parody of the EastEnders opening titles.
Episode Seven – The Return of the Spotted Dick
The Queen Victoria Sponge is warm with victory, but tensions hang in the air like steam from an overworked oven.
Inside, Peggy Cherry Bakewell is lining up slices of fresh sponge behind the bar. Her almond base is firm, her icing swirl high, and her cherry practically vibrating.
Phil the Pudding paces near the till. “Rye-an’s not done. Dot heard he’s bringing the crusts.”
Dot Crumble, sat with her tea and half a crossword, looks up gravely. “Three of ’em. From Pastry Park. Tough crusts. The sort that never go stale.”
Before anyone can speak, the door SLAMS open.
Rye-an Crust storms in, Chantelle Chia Bun by his side — all seeds and smirks — followed by:
* Brioche Brian – golden, puffy, and pumped full of hot air
* Wholemeal Wayne – dense, slow-moving, but solid as a bread bin
* Ciabatta Sid – flat, wide, and floured for action
The regulars fall silent.
“This ends tonight,” Rye-an growls. “You made a joke out of us. Called in the Baroness. Ruined our rise.”
Peggy stands firm. “You ruined your own. Raisins in a sponge? Madness.”
“I’ve had enough of your cherry-shaped mouth,” he sneers, stepping forward.
She grabs her fork.
“Get. Out. Of. My. Pub.”
He charges.
Brioche Brian barrels into the tables — Stacey Swiss Roll intercepts, spinning jam like a weapon.
Wholemeal Wayne lunges at the sponge cabinet — Phil the Pudding blocks him, custard sloshing in waves.
Ciabatta Sid flips a stool — Sharon Scone ducks and launches a jam spoon straight into his eye.
Chantelle throws a bag of flour — Dot ducks, muttering, “They’ll be cleaning that out the cracks for weeks.”
The pub is in chaos.
Peggy shouts, “Phil!”
“I’m trying, Mum!”
Wayne pins Phil against the fruit machine. Rye-an lunges at the sponge display.
Peggy readies herself — a tiny pudding facing down a crusty storm.
And then — the door explodes open.
A towering shape stands in the frame.
Broad. Speckled. Steamed.
It’s Grant.
The long-lost son. The legend. The Spotted Dick.
Currants clinging to his crust. Raisins twitching. Arms thick as rolling pins. His voice? Pure pudding growl.
“Oi.”
Everyone stops.
Rye-an turns. “Who are—”
He’s cut off by a fist. A raisin-flecked punch to the jaw sends him flying into the scone stand.
Grant steps in, grabbing Wholemeal Wayne by the collar. “Touch my brother again, and I’ll bake you myself.”
Flour explodes. Jam flies. A custard jug shatters on Ciabatta Sid’s back.
Peggy climbs onto a chair. “EVERYONE OUT! Now! Before someone gets sliced!”
The crust gang flees, trailing breadcrumbs and shame.
Silence.
Dot slowly rises from under the table. “That… was dramatic.”
Grant dusts himself off. “You alright, Mum?”
Peggy eyes him. “I am now.”
the cherry drops from her head, and lands perfectly in a victory pint.
Duff duff duff…
Blind Man Makes 